


this is how it hurts

by nothingislittle



Series: Unspoken [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Season/Series 03, The pain oh god the pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:10:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>teapotsubtext.tumblr.com</p></blockquote>





	this is how it hurts

Two months. Sherlock has been officially alive for two months, an entire 60 days, but each has felt like a new death, like crying and leaping from St. Bart’s again — only this time, everyone is happy to see him fall and Sherlock knows he deserves it.

John with Mary, John smiling at Mary, _Sherlock_ smiling at Mary. It’s death and it’s dying and it’s how it has to be and Sherlock is giving all of this to John and it’s fine, it’s _fine_.

The flat is this barren place, the corners covered in two years’ dust that Mrs. Hudson tries to clean when Sherlock isn’t looking. _Leave it_. He wants the reminder, the two years he wasted, creeping into his nose when he shuffles through the papers on the desk, leafs through the nonsense on his bookcase. He sneezes and more dust flies and he breathes it into his lungs like particles of every day lost, every day he should have been here, every missed opportunity to say—

No. It’s fine.

 _It’s all fine_.

Sherlock curses himself. Sits hours in his chair, eyes closed, flipping through scenes in his mind palace of he and John, details of John, trying to delete, delete, _delete_ but they won’t go. They won’t go.

He surfaces, eyes open, and sees John’s chair. That chair is the most uncomfortable thing. There’s a spring pokes up in the middle and the frame is cracked and squeaks every time the occupant moves and John always said, “Feels fine to me,” and shrugged. Sherlock hated sitting in that chair, never did unless he was made too on the rare occasion (read: bloody Moriarty).

Sherlock crosses the room and sits in it now, legs tucked under himself, head on the armrest toward the fireplace. Pulls out his phone and opens John’s contact. He could text him, lie about some case, or even just ask him to bring milk. Yes, that could work, and Sherlock taps out the message, _Bring milk, if convenient_. He laughs at the joke, thumb hovering over send. Recalls what it feels like when he sends a text and John doesn’t answer. Waiting for the phone to alight, to hear the chime.

Sherlock deletes the text.

This is a pain he’s never been familiar with. Before, John always answered. Sometimes with a text, often with his presence. But this waiting, this watching and waiting and hoping, this … _pining_. Sherlock hides his face in the upholstery.

_He doesn’t have time for you. He doesn’t want to hear the phone buzz with your messages. He’s not sitting at home waiting for you._

_He doesn’t want you._

It circles in Sherlock’s mind, like a swarm of bats, and he pulls out the phone again, staring at the contact. Just send something. It’s fine if he doesn’t answer, it’s fine. It’s fine. It won't mean anything. Sherlock pretends waiting for the answer won’t eat up his insides. Taps out a message asking about Mary. Deletes it. Taps one about a fake case. Deletes half of it. Changes it to say a possible case. Sherlock deletes that too.

The phone almost ends up smashed on the fireplace grate. But in the end he types and sends just two words, flying into the ether, out from the great gaping maw of his heart:

_Free tonight?_

_-SH_

The “message sent” sound. _Whump_. Sherlock stares at the conversation screen at first, optimistic. But he waits so long his arm is tired from holding the phone.

_You’re an idiot, I cannot believe you thought he would answer. You utter moron, you simpleton. He does not want to hear from you, is not interested in your little games with police and crime. He probably saw the text immediately and deleted it. He. Does. Not. Want. You._

He sets it to vibrate, turns over in the chair, holds the phone close to his chest and closes his eyes. If John answers, he’ll feel it. Against his heart. Sherlock is sickened by his mawkishness and falls asleep in his cold flat, clutching at his mobile.

—

In a London suburb, John Watson stares at his phone, cursor blinking, following a question mark:

_Sure. What’s up?_

The apartment door opens and Mary calls for help with the shopping bags. John holds down delete and rises from his chair.

**Author's Note:**

> teapotsubtext.tumblr.com


End file.
